Sandu ran his fingers through his beard. It was growing longer and needed a good combing. "I don't know. They want you for your usefulness, not...not for who you really are. Once you've done what they want, they'll dispose of you."
Cara braided her hair. "I wish you were wrong, but after spending time with them, I can't help but believe you. What else could I do, though? I'm just one woman."
"One woman with a stalwart ally," Sandu said, gripping her hand between both of his. "And friends among the Protectors. And..." Sandu hesitated, then said, "We may have a wizard of some sort helping us, too."
"Not–"
"Yes. The man who hired me to find you. Please, let me finish. He contacted me again, while I was in the dungeons – story for another time – and told me that your conception wasn't easy. Cara, I think he may be your father. Or he knows more about your family than anyone else you've met before. If he tries to hurt you, we can escape and find another way. I'm sorry, I did betray you, but I did it thinking of you. I think Laris is what we need now that we've lost Alex."
For a moment, Cara said nothing, and Sandu worried that he'd royally vecked it all up. He was nearly ready to leave when she said, "I trust you. I hope what you did was right, but it's too late now. I'm sure Laris would have found me sooner or later, and I'd rather have you at my side when he comes. Now," she said, "help me tie this damn bodice. The court may be full of fampir, but we'll be ready for them. And for Mavian. He took Renna from me, but I'll show him that I'm one to be reckoned with."
As Sandu helped her tie the strings, Cara murmured, "Alex was a close friend. I don't want him to be hurt. Earl Seastone wants me to help him make this world better. If he is as Alex says he is...I don't know if we can trust him."
"We don't know how he intends to create his utopia," Sandu pointed out. "But whatever path you choose, I'll walk it with you. I've made too many mistakes in life, and I don't intend to make another. My axe is yours."
Cara snorted. "Do you even know how to use it?"
"Just swing the sharp end at someone. Pretty simple."
"You're going to hurt yourself and I'll end up saving you."
"That's what heroes do for their companions, isn't it? What good would you be if you didn't engage in needless heroics now and then?"
They both laughed, and for a time, the impending Masque and its dangers seemed far removed. Every shredded nerve and bad humor that Sandu had harbored since he'd separated from her melted away, replaced by an unfamiliar confidence: wherever she was, he would be too. He had let down too many friends and family before; he would never leave her, not while she needed him.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Gwen
HANDMAIDS LABORED over Gwen all day, bringing her from room to room: washing and brushing her thick hair, rubbing oils and lotions over her bare skin, dressing her and applying cosmetics to her eyes. During the Masque, all nobles would strive to hide their natural appearances. Of course, with Gwen's dark skin, she would stand out no matter how much powder coated her shoulders and cheeks.
When Gwen looked in the mirror, she saw a creature she wasn't wholly positive was her. Jewels and strands of beads strung through her piled-high hair, a silver filigree mask adorned with pearls and feathers covered her forehead and upper cheeks. Her eyes had been painted above and below with fantastic colors. Her tapestried dress flowed from her shoulders into long sleeves that tapered to the ground, with a train supported by a curved pillow placed carefully on her hips. Her neck and shoulders were bare, but painted to create a scene that continued off of the dress and onto her skin. Dark red lips, and cheeks contoured to give them a harsher shape, completed her foreign look.
Though she knew she was supposed to feel beautiful, Gwen only felt burdened. Ever since she had left behind the fashion of Demarren, she no longer felt comfortable in such styles. The Dotsch style suited her, and now that she tried to imitate her heritage...she looked like a child dressing in her mother's clothes.
This was no longer her, just as she could no longer be herself if she were to abandon her magic.
As she ran her fingers over the careful embroidery on her sleeve, Gwen thought, Druam had this made just for me. He created a space in his conservatory just for me. Everything he has done for me, he has done out of love. With a pang, she knew that, if she were to leave his life just as quickly as she'd entered it, he would be devastated. In the short time they had been together, their lives had become intertwined. It would be selfish to choose magic over him.
When Gwen reached the top of the grand staircase, she paused and marveled at the sight before her.
Five enormous chandeliers hung over the ballroom, their crystals and candles twinkling. A mezzanine filled with tables of food and wine lined three sides of the room. Below, the dancing floor was as large as some lords' entire manors. A series of floor-to-ceiling glass doors opened onto a terrace that overlooked the palace gardens. Candelabras lined each pillar along the bottom of the mezzanine, and windows on the upper floor let in a fall breeze. The ballroom's opulence was a cathedral to worship wealth and nobility.
The worshipping courtiers tried to out-peacock each other in masses of colorful silk. They moved around the space as fluidly as snow drifting over ice. A band of troupers performed traditional Dotsch melodies on a dais in the middle of the room. Below the music, a babble of voices rose and fell, ever-present but overwhelmed by the vastness of the room.
As she descended the stairs, Gwen felt eyes upon her, and knew that all who saw her knew her in spite of her mask: she was the Demarren princess. After her confession to the council, she wondered how many knew of her powers.
Gwen's palms sweated as her slippers hit the dancing floor, and in a thrill of terror, she thought that perhaps no one would dare to dance with her. But her fears lasted no more than a second, for out of the crowd came a lord, his features hidden by a lion mask, who bowed and offered his hand. She took it and was swept into the dance.
Whirls of sight twisted around her, the smells of perfume and sweat as strong as the stench of fish by the seashore; between dances, Gwen drank mouthfuls of wine before being pulled back into the throng, her tongue still tasting the sweetness of the drink. Her breath turned into a staccato rhythm that she never quite managed to catch. Each partner gripped her hand and held her firmly by the waist, and though she tried to see beyond their masks, she recognized no one.
The light outside dimmed until the only illumination came from the hundreds of candles above and around the dancers. Outside in the gardens, lanterns cast a soft glow on those smoking or dancing on the terrace flagstones. At last Gwen escaped from the throng and managed to eat some fresh fruit and bread on the mezzanine. But her desire for the thrill of movement superseded her hunger, and she descended once more to the dance floor.
This time, a tall man dressed in black and silver materialized from the crowd and took her arm. A black mask, the visage of Autorus, covered the top half of his face, and in the hint of his smile, Gwen knew that Druam had found her. She let him guide her near the dais, where he led her in a Dotsch four-step dance. They moved naturally together, uncaring of the dancers around them. Their eyes locked, and Gwen felt her heart pouring into every limb.
Her dress swirled around her legs, her sleeves drifting with each step. As they danced, the music gained speed and intensity. Druam moved closer to her, his breath on her hair. She looked up to him, holding his gaze. They moved with the music, their hearts beating with the drums. A strange sense of weightlessness came over Gwen, the feeling that of security, and passion, and certainty. She stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek, her hot lips brushing against his cool skin, her hand resting on the line of his jaw.
Still they danced, as close as the pace of the music allowed, and Gwen felt that weightlessness drift all around her, encompassing Druam as well. But she dared not break away from him, for if she did, then this bubble of contentment would pop.
Gasps went out in a wave around them. Druam frowned, l
ooking away from her. Gwen tore her eyes from him and saw with amazement that the two of them were floating, their feet at the level of the crowds' heads. A swirl of soft magic bent around them, carrying them aloft. But Gwen had cast this spell without words or intention, and as she marveled, the spell faded away. A space cleared around them as they came slowly back to the ground.
"Gwen, control yourself," Druam said softly as their feet landed on the marble tiles. "The king is watching."
"Let him watch," Gwen said with a rising anger. "How could he see that and not understand?"
"Come away, Gwen," Druam muttered, grabbing at her arm. "We should not discuss this here."
Gwen resisted, pulling out of his grasp. She glared at him. Love and anger warred in her.
Magic hummed in her fingertips. She pushed it out in a sphere around them, blocking the crowd. The music and murmurs of the crowd faded to silence within their little bubble. Though nobles pushed against the transparent sheen of magic, they could not get through.
"Mavian was right," Gwen said, satisfied at the effect her words produced. Druam's lips tightened, and she continued, "You don't understand my magic. It's not like your lanterns, to be lit or extinguished as you please. It's my heart and my fingers, my skin and my eyes. Take one of those from me, and see how well I fare."
"We don't have a choice!" Druam said. Behind his mask, his blue eyes were unreadable. "I cannot go against the king."
"What gives him the right?" Gwen demanded. "A crown, a birthright?"
"Your birthright protected you from the Trials," Druam said. He tore off his mask, but beneath his, his features were just as blank as they had been at their first meeting. Deep down, Gwen knew that he was hiding the turmoil of emotions. Yet in that moment, she wanted him to rage or weep or tremble. To do anything but treat her to that inhuman blankness.
Druam pressed, "If not for your brother in his position of power, you would have been hanged with the rest of the witches."
"Maybe I should have been!" Renewed guilt surged in her breast as memories of her brother's final moments flashed in her head. "Am I so special that I should have been granted such a boon? Innocent women and men died, yet here I stand."
"The world has never been fair," Druam said. He reached for her again, and she let him take her hands. "So we must do everything in our power to find whatever hope we can. You brought me out of too many years of despair. Gwen, you cannot leave me."
His touch sent warmth through her. If only we could go back, she thought. She lifted a hand to his cheek. "You would have me cut off my feet and still try to dance."
"The king–"
Gwen shook her head. "I won't go to Con Salur. But neither will I stay here, wearing a mask for the rest of my life."
Before Druam could say anything, she kissed him as passionately as she had ever done, then stepped back.
"I love you, Druam, but I can't deny my Gaiar. It is me, and I am it. I'll come back to you, I promise. I love you." Even as she said it, Gwen knew that she meant it. She would return, once the secrets of the magical world had been revealed to her.
The sphere of magic fell around them. The increasing shouts of the crowd pressed on them, but Gwen had eyes only for her husband.
Druam grasped at her. "What are you doing? Gwen!"
She pulled gently away and opened the palm that the witch had touched in her dream. Words and promises spoke in her head. A pinprick of desire pushed itself to the fore of her mind, then spread throughout her entire body. That pinprick showed her the Whispering Woods. She let it consume her.
Gwen's body shook, her whole being threatening to tear itself apart. Her heart stopped, her body froze, agony consumed every nerve. Then, in a flash of light, she vanished from the ballroom.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Cara
WITH RELUCTANCE, Cara had given her sword to Sandu for safekeeping during the Masque. Even as she was swung around the dais by a string of masked gentlemen, she turned her head to Sandu. He stayed by a pillar, his own mask plainly cheap compared to the gold and silver ones around him. His weapon, along with hers, was concealed beneath his overly large player's robe. If the rest of the partygoers weren't so drunk, they may have questioned his appearance.
Cara, though, was dressed like a courtier in a white gown with a blood-red bodice. Her sleeves were tight around her upper arms, but trailed only a foot or so from her elbows, unlike the popular styles that draped to the floor. Her skirt, too, was unusual, for it was split down the sides, and she had been given comfortable breeches to wear underneath. The mask was crafted of supple, red-dyed leather, and covered the upper half of her face.
So far, the Masque had gone on without incident. Even as she rested her feet, Cara felt some doubt. Perhaps Mavian wouldn't dare to appear after his defeat and Renna's death. If he did, there were enough Realm's Protectors there to hold him off while the nobles escaped.
A tall man dressed in red and grey, his mask a wolf's head, approached Cara. He bowed and offered his arm for a dance. Though she wanted nothing more than to sit down – or better yet, simply leave – Cara accepted. She let him take her hand and waist, doing her best to follow the complicated dance. Beneath her skirts, she knew that her feet stumbled and barely kept up, but no one else noticed. She put her head down, focusing on a complicated step.
"I'm glad we could have at least one dance," the man said.
Cara glanced up at him in surprise. Behind his vicious mask, she saw Alex's eyes. Of course. She hadn't spoken to him since that night. But, surrounded by laughing courtiers and socially obligated to finish the dance with him, she said, "Don't start, Alex."
"I'm not your enemy, Cara. We can help each other. Maybe with your help, I can convince Druam to leave aside his fantasies of a perfect world and instead focus on stopping the prowler scourge. No matter what you think of me, I hate the prowlers."
"Why should I trust you?" Cara hissed between her teeth.
"Haven't my actions shown my loyalties?"
"You–" Cara didn't finish her sentence. She halted, her dress swirling around her legs, and stared.
Earl and Lady Seastone rose above the crowd, borne aloft by some sort of magic. Slowly, they came back down. A magic bubble formed around them. Alex pushed toward it, his hand still entwined with Cara's. But no matter how he pressed against it, they couldn't pass through.
Suddenly the magic dissipated. The lady kissed the earl. Then there was a blinding flash of light.
Cara blinked the spots from her eyes. Lady Seastone had vanished. The earl seemed dazed, his fingers reaching for the spot his wife had stood only seconds before. The musicians on the dais stopped playing.
"Gwen!" the earl shouted, casting about as if she had merely gone into the crowd.
"She's not here. You drove her away."
Gasps and murmurs spread through the hall. Cara instinctively drew closer to Alex, familiar tingles sparking in every nerve. Without turning around to see the speaker, she knew who it was. She met Alex's eye, and together they faced Mavian.
Dressed in a swirling black cloak, his silver amulet glowing at his throat, Mavian stood at the top of the grand staircase. A space had been made around him by courtiers too nervous to draw close. The air hummed with energy, distorted by purple light, and, as everyone watched, a black rift opened behind him, large enough for the royal carriage to pass through. The ground shook. There were yelps and cries of confusion, and the nobles nearest him tried to back further away, pressing together to escape this new, unknown magic.
"He's blocked the door," Cara murmured to Alex.
"There's the terrace and servants' passages, but if he does anything besides talk, there'll be hysteria. We can't herd panicked people."
Mavian stepped forward. The crowd bent away from him, schools of fish evading a hungry shark. He raised his hand and a blanket of silence fell on the murmuring nobles. Ever hungry for melodramatics, they waited for him to speak.
"This man you call earl," Mavian said, po
inting to Earl Seastone, "is a fraud!" He waited for the whispers to die down. "He is a liar, a villain, and, perhaps worst of all, inhuman. For years have I watched him, feeling my mind softening whenever I questioned his decisions or motives. He controls you all, and our feeble minds accept his false explanations as truth!" Again he paused.
Questions arose in the crowd. "What does he mean?" "Could it be true?" Cara craned her neck, looking for Sandu. He had straightened, his eyes fixed on Mavian. She squeezed Alex's hand and nodded toward Sandu. Together they wove around the entranced nobles.
In the center of the room, Druam stood tall. Even from a distance, Cara could sense the rage burning in his eyes.
Mavian shouted, "Druam Strilu is not human! How many of you clearly remember his father? How many of you can recall seeing him as a child? Look in the old, abandoned wing of this very palace, and you will find portraits of Druam's so-called forefathers, but each and every one resembles him beyond mere familial looks."
"I don't remember him as a child," someone muttered.
"I never saw the late Lady Seastone pregnant," another said.
Cara and Alex pushed past a few more nobles to Sandu's side. Sandu tore his gaze from the spectacle. He drew his weapon from beneath his robe before handing Cara's sword to her.
Holding his hands aloft, Mavian continued. "Now that the lie has been exposed, the truth is creeping up in your memories! The truth, which for so long has been hidden from you by Druam's vile magics. He has been ruler of this region for centuries, calling himself by different names, but always the same man."
"Is this true?" a man demanded. He tore his mask away, revealing himself as King Henrik. He stood with the circle of courtiers around the earl. Pointing at Mavian, he shouted, "Tell us, man, is what he says true? Shall we call a council to question you, Earl Seastone?"
Mavian didn't allow Druam to speak. His voice, now softer, carried to every corner. "I have studied the prowlers for years, ever since my father was murdered by them. In my research, I have found something different, and far more terrible: in the Gallic tongue, they are called fampir. They have the same bloodlust, the same disease as the prowlers, but they can dwell among us for years untold, hidden beneath a mortal mask. Druam Strilu is such a creature! He preys on the rustics, using poppin dens as his hunting grounds, and yet calls for action against his own feral kin."
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